How does a “selective return to the habits of (our) Paleolithic ancestors” sound?

What part of that life would you select? Well, look to the young, virile, and well-dressed New York thirty-something crowd for some suggestions.  Described in an article published today in the New York Times, this group calls themselves urban cavemen. The element of Paleolithic life they’ve selected? Consuming large quantities of meat, sometimes raw, and then fasting for a few days to recreate the cycles of hunting and consumption that defined pre-agricultural life in an effort to achieve the physical prowess and “fearsome feats” of prehistoric man. There is no mention in the article that these men actually do the hunting in which that physical prowess would be so necessary but they do the fearsome eating. A Frenchman mentioned in the piece who similarly admires the cave life but favors a caveman chic version, espouses the benefits of “mouvement naturel” like the “essential skill” of “playing catch with stones.” New York’s savage nobles pride themselves on mitigating the numbing world of climate control and comfort by walking the city streets. One such innovator claims, “New York is the only city in America where you can walk.”

Up to this point, I was trying to be somewhat sympathetic. With a few laughs at the embarrassing masculinity of it all, I understood that they were trying to rediscover a relationship with food. Slow Food could hardly scoff at that. But the relationship they discovered, or perhaps created is a better word, reveals less about anything “naturel” and more about the complicated stories we tell about ourselves through our food, the strange ways we construct our bodies and our habitats through how we frame our consumption patterns. San Franciscans can immediately see that story start to unravel when our caveman claims that New York is the only walkable city. But what about the freezers full of meat? The exercise retreats of boulder jumping? The identification with a group of people completely alien to us?

Though your story may not have quite this much testosterone, you have one nonetheless. But, as is often the case with our most personal choices in life like religion, it is dangerous to pretend that instead of telling a story we are simply fulfilling a pre-written text, we are simply living as we are “supposed” to. What makes us human is not incredible quantities of meat, but our need to tell stories about that meat. It seems misguided to dredge up lives of people we don’t understand and pretend we do. The cavemen had their own stories, their own systems, their own fabricated order of things. But stocking a freezer full of meat whose origin doesn’t even warrant a thought let alone concern is a dangerous story to tell, a myth that obscures its own process of signification in the spirit of Roland Barthes’ mythic speech.

The impulse is understandable. We want validation that our stories, our choices are correct or authentic. We want to think our engagement with food is more profound than what we are served systematically through impersonal commodity chains. The efforts of fast food empires to serve these uniform products with a smile of personal warmth have not fooled us. But replacing the wrapped up hamburger with a slab of raw meat is more of a lateral move into an alternatively branded regime of consumption. As far as prescribed eating goes, I’ll stick to Slow Food’s good, clean, fair because it helps me to tell a story, a story still in the process of being told whose promises still need our active verbs, in which our relationship with food is not validated by an ability to throw stones, leap across boulders, or admire feats of strength but is instead affirmed through food’s ability to connect a community, to provoke reflection on our role within that community and our subsequent responsibilities, and to push us to live our lives for each other. My food story doesn’t move through the principle of survival of the fittest but rather through an understanding that no man is an island.

It’s January 5th. Clearly, I’m a little hesitant to post resolutions. We were forced to formulate goals periodically in an English class I took long ago in high school. The first time I sort of disliked it. The second time I found every aspect of it tiresome. The third time I instead wrote an essay arguing against ever making resolutions. So forgive me if my attempt to return to resolutions is a bit weak. I’m still not much good at them. I’m trying to carve out some very specific goals that not only carry targets but also explanations of what those goals mean to me and why they are important.

1. Ask. When I shop, when I eat at restaurants, when I eat with friends ask about where it’s coming from, ask about what it means to them, ask about what they think about when they think about food. I suppose I used to think it would seem rude if I asked a waiter where the carrots came from, that it would just bother them. But, if done politely and humbly, it actually reflects a sincere interest in food and the deepest respect for the all who work with food. When dealing with friends, I felt similarly. My decision not to eat meat because of the difficulty in determining a certain provenance seemed personal. And I don’t think I need to try to convert anybody to anything. But I do think everyone should have to answer for their food choices. Everyone should have to be a conscientious eater. And on top of my desire to push people to become conscientious eaters, I am also simply interested in their food histories, how certain things came to be important to them.

2. Try. I want to try a new recipe once a week. A great way to force myself to do this is to sign up for a CSA. It’s a bit like Iron Chef with a surprise ingredient. This one requires less of the long term, slow momentum of the first resolution, it means simply signing up now that I’ve moved into my new apartment. But the effects will hang around. I’ll have new recipes on standby for company and I’ll continue to get to know myself in the kitchen. I’ll be able to read a recipe and understand why it is in a certain order or know when to substitute according to my own developed taste. I’ll be working toward my own culinary identity.

3. Write. I’ve been having these dreams about Obama. They started after the summer election in Iran. We sit down to lunch, both order salads, and I tell him what I think should be done. Sometimes we talk about the opposition in Iran, the UC system, health care, and agricultural reform. It seems quite silly (why do we always just order salad? is that the decided meal of diplomats?) but it’s wonderful that I feel I have this relationship, this ability to speak. We all have that ability. Maybe I can’t meet up with him for lunch but I can write to him, to my representatives, to department heads. I want to either call or write once a week to tell those in power to prioritize agricultural land reform as a matter of economic and environmental sustainability. I want to ask them to reject the influence of large lobbyists who have made it so every farm must have a separate bathroom set aside for the sole use of the inspector sent from the USDA, adding yet another cost hurdle for small farmers. I believe in pestering. I believe in coordinated, large scale pestering. I guess I’m making a resolution to pester and asking you to think about doing the same.

That’s my initial toe test of the waters of resolution. Let me know if you have any suggestions and happy new year!

In a neighborhood house designed by Julia Morgan in the early twenties, San Franciscans sat looking out at the night lights of the bridges and buildings below. Well, it wasn’t quite that calm. There was laughter, wine, and crab all set to the music of local band Mighty Mississippi. But every now and then the low-hanging moon would demand attention, seeming to pull the distant city a little closer together. And that was the spirit of the night; the distant made close. Every element of the night had something to say to the other elements. The building itself serves as a multi-generational meeting ground for after-school programs, senior nutrition classes, and a variety of programs geared toward children caught up in the juvenile corrections system. The crab was served by students of the California Culinary Academy. The dessert, provided by the San Francisco Baking Institute. Beverages came from all over the Bay Area from Bodega Del Sur Winery, Magnanimus Wine Group, Thirsty Bear Brewing Company, and Citizen Bean. In between conversations held by the guests, if you listened closely, you could hear a conversation of community. That is to say that without words, the generosity of all those involved made its presence felt.

It was the perfect post-Thanksgiving night of giving thanks. All the things I forgot to be thankful for last week, I now had an opportunity to acknowledge. I am thankful that in a big city far from what I call home, I happen to sit next to a fellow-Midwesterner. I am thankful that there is such a city, such an organization, that can gather people whose interest in food grew out of diverse landscapes. From the farm kids of the Midwest, to the couple who flew in just for the Slow Crab and Oyster Fest from New Jersey, to the San Francisco natives who grew up knowing the start of crab season, Slow Food has a place for everyone. It has a place for the State Senator, the fisherman, the aspiring chef, the college student, the social activist, and the concerned eater.

And what brought us all together? Fresh Dungeness crab from the local Monterey Fish Market and delicious oysters from Drakes Bay Oysters. I am woefully inexperienced in the art of eating crab but I think it must be fun at any experience level. We compared cracking techniques and celebrated the successful removal of a full piece of leg meat. It was a meal whose own consumption involved us in a bit of theater as we waited to see if the latest crunch would be victorious. But the crab took on a new role in a drama laid out as Senator Mark Leno, Zeke Grader from the Pacific Coast Federation of Fishermen’s Associations, and Paul Johnson of Monterey Fish Market spoke to the well-fed crowd.

That crab we enjoyed is in danger. Essentially, the issue is that out-of-town fishermen come to the Bay Area for relatively early season-opening date before moving on to fish elsewhere. Their presence depletes crab for our local fishermen. Many of the out-of-town boats come with hundreds more traps than the local boats use, effectively ending the season early. Mark Leno has introduced legislation,AB749, to limit trap numbers and entry for a two-year trial period to be reviewed by the Department of Fish and Game. Governor Schwarzenegger has vetoed it twice. We must write, call, and email his office to let him know that he cannot veto it again. As the PCFFA (or the Fishermen’s Liberation Front for those of you at the Crab and Oyster Fest) notes, this measure, “was intended to: (1) prevent waste (when too much crab hits the market at once); (2) promote safer fishing conditions (avoiding the race for crab); (3) create a stable labor force and keep crab processing in California: (4) assure a supply of fresh, local crab over the course of the season, and; (5) protect the marine environment from lost crab traps on the ocean bottom.” For more information check out http://www.pcffa.org/fn.htm to read about crab fishing, aquaculture, salmon, even fishermen’s health care.

And, as we were reminded last night, the fork is also a powerful tool when wielded in collaboration with the policy. If you’re interested in recipes for this season’s seafood, check out montereyfish.com. I suggest the homemade gefilte fish recipe. Of course, you can’t go wrong with Dungeness crab. It would be the prefect dish to serve at your letter-writing dinner to remind Governor Schwarzenegger why crab is a critical part of San Francisco’s traditions.

I’m sure the couple from New Jersey and all other transplants would share my sentiments in saying, thank you San Francisco for sharing and defending this tradition.